


Non Sum Dignus

by vialattea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Post-Sex Regret, and do not necessarily represent those of vialattea or her affiliates, any views or opinions about damask wallpaper in this fic are solely those of the characters, crowley can have a little crushing vulnerability. as a treat, cryptic mail, fisher price baby’s first angst ficlet, hatred for damask, the mortifying ordeal of waking up to a fully dressed partner who will not make eye contact, who among us has not personified wallpaper to cope with rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vialattea/pseuds/vialattea
Summary: Fuck it. Just- fuck it. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale was fussy and cold and brainwashed by heaven and who would want to be with someone like that anyway? Someone who didn’t want you?Not Crowley. He could never see Aziraphale or that bedroom again in his eternal life and he’d be better for it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 305
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Name That Author Round Two





	1. The Wallpaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and _Domine non sum dignus_ should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.”  
> Oscar Wilde

Fuck it. Just- fuck it. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale was fussy and cold and brainwashed by heaven and who would want to be with someone like that anyway? Someone who didn’t want you? 

Not Crowley. He could never see Aziraphale or that bedroom again in his eternal life and he’d be better for it. 

“I hated that wallpaper, anyway,” he grumbled, rifling through his mail. 

That wallpaper. That wallpaper patterned in cream-colored damask, peeling and tattered around the edges like Aziraphale’s waistcoat. It was passé. Garish. Crowley had told him so that night as they fell into bed together — teased him for his inability to let anything go. He could still feel the angel’s laughter on his palms and the warmth of his skin if he thought about it, which he didn’t. 

What he did think about was the silent terror from which the joke had bloomed like a fungus. The desperate _please don’t change_ he’d so nearly uttered, clinging with white-knuckled fingers to the hope that Aziraphale would see in him whatever he was seeing in these other damaged objects that made them worth loving. 

And maybe he had, for a moment. Or they could blame it on the alcohol that had clearly left both their systems before they reached the top of the stairs. To have stepped through that bedroom door was a privilege Crowley hardly deserved, but indulging Aziraphale always was. He could rationalize it that way — as a service. What he could not understand was what he’d done to make an angel kneel for him.

Or what rotten, ugly thing he’d become in his sleep to make him regret it.

The wallpaper could tell him. It had witnessed the whole blissful mistake. (Except it wasn’t a mistake because he was better off, apart from how he’d never felt worse.) Had it seen the love in Crowley’s movements? The pathetic tremble of his hands? Had it noticed him hastily wipe his eyes when it was over?

What had it seen in Aziraphale that Crowley had missed?

There must have been something. Some sign. He should’ve known to look for it — not been such a naive fool, like a fucking teenager, letting his guard down over a frivolous romp and thinking it was love. Then he may have had a chance of survival when Aziraphale suggested so softly what made carrion of Crowley's heart.

_“I think you should go.”_

How unfair of him to look so breathtaking in the light of morning. His voice like honey, the words it formed like splinters of glass.

_“Angel-”_

_“Yes._ Angel _. I can’t… I shouldn’t have-”_

_“Please don’t do this.”_

_“I can’t undo it.”_

He’d said it like he wanted to.

Which was fine. Crowley wasn’t focused on that. He was focused on opening the mail. A letter.

…Except Crowley didn’t get letters. 

He unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers and motionless lungs. 

Inside was a scrap of cream-colored damask wallpaper. 

And in neat, copperplate handwriting: _Please don’t forget._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love and adore my Discord friends I'm going to update this with a happy ending fix-it chapter I PROMISE. I'll probably have it up within the week. Thank you for reading!!


	2. The Bookshelf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie to you, it gets worse before it gets better.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

Aziraphale shot up from his desk. “Crowley.”

He held up the note. “ _‘Please don’t forget?’_ It wasn’t enough for you to throw me out like a- like a fucking dirty napkin or something, you had to do this too?" Crowley slammed the parchment onto a book by the till. "Of course I can’t _forget_. But you could at least have allowed me a shred of dignity in pretending I had the choice.”

The words drew something from Aziraphale’s eyes, something like fear or sadness or Satan knows what else but Crowley could not acknowledge that now — not while he was clinging to anger like a life raft.

“I- I hadn’t meant-” Aziraphale swallowed. “I didn't realize it would be so upsetting.”

“You _made me think you_ -” Crowley bit off the end of the sentence. Not going there. “What part don’t you want me to forget, Aziraphale? The part where I woke up to an empty bed? The part where you refused to meet my eye? The part where I didn’t hear from you for a _week_ until it occurred to you to send me a three-word letter?” 

It wasn’t the three-word letter he would have longed for, had his capacity for hope not been shattered beyond repair.

Aziraphale stared at the parchment, worrying at his lip. Crowley knew exactly what it felt like to have that lip between his own teeth, the way it yielded to the pressure, the taste of it. The rich, glistening pink it had become around-

He dug his nails into his palm.

“I never intended to hurt you,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Pretty shit planning on your end, then.” 

“There was no _plan-_ "

“Yeah, well maybe there should’ve been! You’re always blathering on about them, maybe you should have thought for onesecond about how it would end before you-"

“I did think!” Aziraphale burst out. “I was the only _one_ thinking! Somebody had to consider the repercussions! I know how you are, you’re- you’re reckless and you don’t care what happens to you, but I do!”

Crowley’s eyes went aflame with rage. He could feel them turn serpentine from edge to edge, that final slip of composure lost to white-hot fury.

“Oh you _care_ ,” he said tightly. “Wow, thank you so much for your infinite fucking compassion. Really made me feel _cared for_ when you told me to leave without so much as a ‘good morning.’ Without even looking me in the eyes.” 

It had been humiliating, and the process of leaving even more so. Crowley — who, as has now been well-established, is an absolute fucking idiot — had taken his sunglasses off downstairs the night before. It left him naked the following morning even once he was dressed. Not that it mattered. Aziraphale had never glanced up from the floor. He-

Oh. Oh, shit. Of course.

“You were ashamed,” he realized. “You couldn’t face what I was beneath the flash and sunglasses.”

Aziraphale winced. “No. Crowley, please-” 

“You’ll put my cock in your mouth but I’m not respectable enough to acknowledge the next morning, that it? You didn't want me laid bare with the lights on?” 

The words were vile; they shot up like vomit from the back of his throat and Crowley hated himself for how much he wanted them to spatter the angel in the face, burn raw marks into his skin. 

“You must believe me,” Aziraphale begged. “It was the best night of my life. I never-”

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

He fell silent.

Crowley swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, choking down fragments anguish that threatened to rip their way out from the inside. His anger was failing him, steadily giving way to an aching hollowness he could not bear to look at directly.

Instead he looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale who Crowley would still drop to his knees for in a second if he asked because he was an embarrassment as much as he was a blubbering pillock. 

He was breathtaking, every bit as much as always. Even when he'd been completely undone. Especially then. His hair had been ruffled in all directions and his cheeks flushed pink as a sunset, but it was his voice as well — those moans and ragged breaths had suffused Crowley like watercolors through an empty page. It left him vibrant. Complete as he’d never been. That alone would have been more than enough.

But Aziraphale, for all that he was buttoned-up now, had been bare and voracious then. He’d given Crowley everything. Shifted the world beneath him.

Then ripped it away entirely.

And Crowley wasn’t thinking about it. 

He probably shouldn’t be here at all. He should be in his flat, screaming at plants or-

“You’re right.”

Crowley looked up sharply. 

“I should never have sent you that letter,” Aziraphale said. His voice was ragged and desperate. A foreign sound. “I’ve been selfish enough, and a terrible friend to you. I’m so sorry.”

There was no pretense of an argument left. Only the silent air between them pulled taut as a violin string, aching for a disturbance. Discordant, mellifluous, anything. Anything besides Aziraphale's tremulous lips and hands, his very being held uncertainly like it was about to collapse and couldn’t decide which direction to fall. 

It felt to Crowley like what a human might experience at seeing their own death.

And it shouldn’t; that was the worst thing. His heart was a parasite with no regard for its own survival. It would gladly break its fingers to keep a hand in the door, rip itself to pieces before it let one damn thing go.

But it was his. And because it was his, Crowley’s fingers twitched at his sides, eager to reach out, to comfort, to hold. 

He crossed the space between them. Just a few steps before stopping short. 

_Don’t touch him. He doesn’t want you to touch him._

Aziraphale glanced up at the motion with what Crowley deeply wished was a flicker of hope in his eyes, but he knew better than to assume that now. He hadn't even considered it. Instead he squared his jaw. Deployed the most mortifying question in his arsenal.

"Why’d you do it?"

“I…” Aziraphale glanced downward. "I don't know."

Course. Course he didn’t.

Crowley had at least been expecting something more than ambivalence. Fool that he was. Getting shot in the foot by his own expectations even now, after everything, still assuming he meant more than he did. 

“You don’t know,” he repeated.

“I mean- I know, I do, but I can’t understand the timing. I’ve spent ages-” Whatever the end of the sentence was, Aziraphale let it die on his tongue. “I should have put you first,” he said instead. “But I was weak and I _wanted_ you and you were so…” 

Crowley braced himself as Aziraphale searched for the word. Drunk, probably. Convenient. 

"Lovely."

 _Lovely._

It landed like a brick to the head, forceful and dizzying. Worse than anything he could have anticipated.

“Stop. I don’t want to know. I meant why’d you want me to _leave._ ”

“Oh. I- I rather didn’t.” Aziraphale tugged uncomfortably at his waistcoat. “But seeing you there asleep, so vulnerable... Crowley, all I did that night was consider the ways they could hurt you before you were destroyed completely. If _anyone_ were to find out- I simply couldn’t take the risk for something so preventable. I needed you to be safe. I don’t know what I’d do if-” He pinched his lips. “I suppose I’ve already lost you. Have I?”

Crowley wanted to lie. He wanted to say Aziraphale lost him the second he left the bed, that the quiet terror in his voice now was the consequence of his own actions. Because Crowley respects himself. Because he has standards.

But Aziraphale is the one with standards.

“Course not.”

Aziraphale's shoulders dropped. He choked out a sob, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “S- sorry,” he sputtered. “I was- I hadn’t expected to hear that.”

“There’s still damage,” Crowley added quietly.

Aziraphale took a breath. “I know. I was petrified by the magnitude of the boundary I’d crossed, and I overcompensated by hurting you.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. But if it’s not too late, I would do whatever I can to make it right.”

Crowley folded his arms. He would have preferred to curl into a ball so tight he turned to dust, but this was his best alternative. It didn’t help much.

“S’fine,” he muttered.

Aziraphale glared. “It is most definitely _not_ fine. You must let me do something to fix it. For my own sake, at least.” His expression softened. “Please, darling. Talk to me.”

He was giving Crowley those eyes. Crowley would walk the length of a galaxy for them. Do anything they asked, anything he was capable of.

But he wasn’t capable of this.

“I don’t think it can ever be like it was.” The expression that drew from Aziraphale was enough to force Crowley’s eyes away, and he didn’t look back as he continued. Because he was a coward. “I know how you feel. I know how you taste. I can’t look at you without- thinking about it. I’m going to want it, all the time, and I can’t, and maybe before I could push it down but now that I know you’d-” He exhaled. “Now that the line’s been crossed, I can’t put it back. I’ll know it isn’t real. And it’ll hurt.”

Crowley waited for a response.

And waited. 

He waited long enough that he could no longer bear the lack of input. He turned back expecting to find misery, maybe anger, but instead- 

Aziraphale looked… fascinated.

That couldn’t be right.

“You would… still?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, reverting to irritation like a well-honed instinct. “Yes I would _still_. Obviously. Can we get back to the point?”

“You love me.”

“I- _what?_ ”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeated, eyes wide. “You do.”

“Wh- I- nnuh, no I don’t. I don’t.” Crowley shook his head just a little too long. He tried unsuccessfully to will his stomach back from the floor.

Then Aziraphale let out a sharp laugh, almost hysterical. He put a hand to his forehead. “Oh my word. You love me. That’s why- oh, Crowley, I am so sorry.”

“Great. Thanks. Y’know, most people don’t smile while they’re apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

“Again, you’re not-”

“I love you.” 

“You _what?_ ”

“I love you,” Aziraphale beamed. 

Except he didn’t. Crowley was not entertaining that possibility. If he got an ‘I think you should go’ after this he couldn’t come back, not ever. 

“You love everything,” he barked.

“Oh, you know that’s not true.” Aziraphale glanced briefly at the _Sound of Music_ playbill that lay somewhere behind Crowley on the floor. “And I certainly don’t love everyone the way I love you, Crowley. I don’t share my life with everyone. I don’t light up at the sight of everyone, or make excuses for everyone to come by.”

Aziraphale took a step closer. 

“I don’t want everyone,” he said softly.

Another step.

“Or want everyone to want me.“

Crowley's back hit the bookshelf. He wondered idly when he’d moved.

“I want you to want me, Crowley.”

He did. God above, he did. He wanted Aziraphale like it was the one damn thing he'd ever known how to do, because maybe it was, and he would have said so if he wasn’t busy being hyper-aware of every crease and freckle on the angel’s face. Satan help him, he wasn’t strong enough for this.

Aziraphale gently lifted away his sunglasses. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Crowley breathed. “Fuck, yes, _yes-_ ”

The sunglasses dropped to the floor.

Aziraphale kissed him. 

Aziraphale was kissing him again and Jesus Christ it was not like the last time — his hands found Crowley’s wrists and pinned them solidly to the bookcase, tongue slipping into his mouth almost immediately. Crowley should have been embarrassed at the sound he made but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Aziraphale wanted him. Aziraphale was in _love_ with him.

The angel slid a thigh between Crowley’s legs and he gasped at the pressure, hips rolling forward instinctively. “ _Shit-_ ”

“Watch your _language_ , you fiend,” Aziraphale smiled against his mouth.

He barked a laugh that turned to a moan as Aziraphale nipped at his ear. It was intoxicating. It was everything he wanted.

Crowley couldn’t do it.

He had to ask. 

Aziraphale’s breath was hot against his neck, sending an involuntary shudder through the core of him and a rush of heat much lower.

He had to ask. 

His jeans were getting steadily more uncomfortable. The angel knew it.

God, Satan, _fuck-_ _ask! Ask, ask, ask!_

“How is this different than last time?” 

Aziraphale went still. 

Crowley shouldn’t have asked.

He pulled back, gently lowering Crowley’s wrists and releasing them. The loss was as intense a feeling as his presence had been.

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale admitted. “Not circumstantially. But to borrow your language, I don’t think it can ever be like it was.” His eyes flicked to the letter on the table. “I never regretted being with you. I hope that’s clear by now. What I regretted was compromising your safety so drastically for what I thought was… something frivolous. Oh, don’t give me that look.”

“What look!”

“The ‘obviously I was in love with you the whole time’ look. I know it, I used it on you not five minutes ago."

Crowley scoffed. 

" _Anyway_ ," Aziraphale continued, "we can be no less cautious in public — in fact, I would be more comfortable if we increased our protective measures, though it will never be entirely safe. But in a private setting…” He stared at Crowley’s lips. “If I’m being entirely honest, my dear, I don't think I could keep my hands off you if I tried."

Crowley stepped forward. Unraveled his bow tie.

"Don't try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope this chapter helped heal any wounds I made in the last one.


End file.
